The Private Concierge
Saturday, October 5
Four days earlier
Ned Talbert hit the brakes so hard his Alfa Romeo Spider snorted and its wheels dug into the gravel like a pawing bull. The back end lifted as if the sports car was about to do a somersault, and Ned's knees knocked against the dash.
Geysering pebbles splattered the windshield.
He heaved himself back, grunting as the steering wheel disengaged from his ribs. Amazing the air bags hadn't inflated. He'd barely missed colliding head-on with the entrance gate to Rick Bayless's cabin in the San Gabriel Mountains.
The gate wasn't just closed, it was padlocked. Even in the falling light, Ned spotted the shiny new lock as he struggled to get out of the Spider. His legs were jelly. Padlocked? Rick never padlocked the gate—and it wasn't even 5:00 p.m., too early to close up the place for the night.
Ned broke into a run and didn't stop. He could see he wasn't going to get the gate open so he coiled and vaulted the chain-link mesh, leaving a strip of his pant leg on the scrollwork, leaving the door hanging open to his obscenely expensive new car, leaving it all behind, and running like a madman up the road to the darkened ... read full excerpt from: The Private Concierge ebook
